


The Longest Walk

by dismiss_your_fearsx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, S1E8, Sad, Why Did I Write This Kind of Sad, scene filler, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismiss_your_fearsx/pseuds/dismiss_your_fearsx
Summary: She still looked like she was sleeping.
Relationships: Dwight Enys/Ross Poldark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	The Longest Walk

The harsh dawn stretched her long fingers into the master bedroom of Nampara, her light forcing the room’s occupants to face the reality of death as though a smack to their faces. 

Ross Poldark lay crouched on an infant’s bed in the corner of his bedchamber. His bent knees protruded over its side and his still-booted feet dangled off the end, as though he stubbornly sought to fill a space which could never be replaced. Laying atop his right arm was his daughter, Julia, sleeping soundly. Soundly forevermore.

It had been easier this way: to lie here with her. In the cover of night, Ross had convinced himself she was sleeping, had imagined how her small chest rose and fell with every breath she took. He knew in the comforting blanket of darkness that he had been mad to believe what Dr Enys said to be true, for it could not be. 

But in the raw light of a new day, the bitterest of days, the illusion, his dream, was shattered and his life was the darkest nightmare. A silent tear seared his skin as it trickled along the side of his nose, the moisture that irritated his nose hairs was his only sense that he was still alive. 

She still looked like she was sleeping. 

“Ross.” It was Dwight’s voice, always soft and kind and patient, but now more so than Ross could ever have imagined. 

He did not know long the doctor, his friend, his brother in arms, had been trying to gain his attention. It could have been minutes or hours, he knew not. 

Dwight swallowed thickly and tried again. “Won’t you let me take her now?” 

Ross merely shook his head and held her closer to him.

Dwight ran an impatient hand over his eyes and, determined to be useful, said quietly, “I will ride to Truro and fetch the…” He could not say it.

“Make it oak,” was all Ross said. She deserved the best in this world. His voice was hoarse - the ghost of a whisper. He spoke as though he did not want to wake her. 

* * *

Dwight bought Julia a crisp, white dress made of silk, fit for the angel she now was. It had cost him almost a year's worth of his wages, a sum which he would never allow Ross or Demelza to repay. He felt it was the least, the very least, he could do. 

Ross was summoned once Dwight had changed Julia and placed her inside the oak sanctuary; Prudie had wrapped her in a hand-knitted blanket and Jud arranged some of Demelza’s winter peonies around her. They all knew that Ross would want to be the one to place the nails in; his final act as her father - to protect her peace.

The sight of the small coffin made his insides twist and churn and he swallowed his desire to retch. He could not look inside but nor could he not look away. He found that he was shaking, but did not know why. Rage? Sadness? Fury? Exhaustion? Perhaps he was simply cold. A powerful dread came over him when he realised, perhaps too late, that Demelza was not standing next to him. Of course she was not. She was upstairs sleeping fitfully in her illness, the same illness which had claimed their Julia. And still Ross found himself saying, “Demelza will want to- to see her.” 

Dwight shook his head firmly and said, “No. She cannot.” At any rate, she _could_ not for she herself remained in the throes of sickness, and might also never awake.

“That is not for you to decide.” There was a bitterness in Ross’s voice that was not directed at any one person, but at the whole world itself. 

“She could not survive it, Ross. She would not. You and I both know it.” Dwight felt two hot tears streak his face. 

Ross said nothing and closed his eyes. The image of their child, his little Julia, small and lifeless in his arms would haunt him forevermore. He was not sure he would survive it himself. “Yes, I know it,” he said quietly. Even if Demelza survived this cursed sickness, this would kill her. How was he ever going to tell her? She had begun making Julia a new hat the day before the putrid throat poisoned them both. He would have to find it and burn it in the fire.  


He did not open his eyes for some time, he wanted to trap the moisture which had gathered beneath his eyelids. If he allowed himself to cry, to weep, he was certain he would never be able to stop. He heard, rather than saw, Dwight gently place the lid on the coffin. 

Eventually, Ross opened his eyes and took the small hammer a quivering Jud handed him. No one rushed him. He could not prevent the tears that leaked from his eyes. Dwight met his grief-stricken gaze, shedding his own tears; Ross was inexplicably grateful when his friend did not hug him as he handed him a small nail.

As Ross held the first screw in place he found his hand to be remarkably steady. Perhaps it was in denial with the rest of him. Suddenly he noted the pale yellow ribbon embroidered with his daughter's name which was now tied around his wrist. He spoke to that when he murmured, “Goodbye, my dearest love.” 

And the nail slid into place with an ease with which it was not put there. 

* * *

The next day was beautiful: sunny, cloudless, serene. Ross thought it was both an insufferable insult and a fitting tribute all at once. With Julia Grace Poldark dead, the whole world should be dark, mourning; but yet Julia’s short life had always brought light and sunshine and laughter wherever she went, so the sky could do nothing but smile down on them. 

Ross could not believe the number of mourners present, this had stunned some feeling back into him as he’d entered the graveyard with the coffin on his shoulder. It had been both unbearably light and yet the heaviest load to carry. He found he could not meet any of their eyes, his gaze focused solely on the small, pitiful hole in the ground. The wooden box, which Dwight had made sure was oak - soft and ancient and polished and fitting and fine - was already nestled in the soft dirt. Around him people were muttering condolences he could not hear. Mourners respectfully gathered small handfuls of feathery earth and scattered it onto the oak surface along with an array of flowers. Ross wanted desperately to shout, to scream, to order them to be more gentle, to stop them from drowning her in the dirt, but no words came out, he merely gazed blankly before him. He was not sure if he would ever speak again. 

“Ross, I think it is time,” said Dwight a while later.

Ross did not have to ask what he meant; he knew it was time to leave. The sun had abandoned them, hiding in its shame on the western horizon for having brought this day, and the cold dusk was beginning to bite their skin. He knew it was time to go home, they must return to Demelza, they must care for her, nurture her back to life, for surely she must survive? A world without his child and his wife would be a fate worse than death itself, and Ross knew of no man or deed which could possibly deserve such a thing. It was not fathomable. It would be a blow so bitter it would shame all the devils in Hell. 

Dwight’s hands shook with exhaustion as he crouched down and grasped two handfuls of soft dirt. Ross noted absently that he lingered down there a while, perhaps in prayer. As he rose to stand tall next to him, Ross reflexively held out his palm, into which Dwight deposited some Earth, most of which then poured through the gaps in his limp fingers. 

“Together?” Dwight asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against the rising tide of emotion that fought to leave his throat. 

Ross must have nodded his agreement for he and Dwight simultaneously extended their arms and gently released the final fistful of soil on top of where Julia now rested. It seemed to shield her from this life and its cruelty and illness and brutality; she could now be at peace, nothing could hurt her now. The defeating silence surrounding the two men had a maddening sense of finality about it. 

“Ross, come,” Dwight beckoned, gently placing a hand on the bereaved father’s shoulder and unrooting him from the spot on which he’d stood these past six hours. Dwight felt, with a burning guilt which rose like bile in his throat, that Ross should shrug his hand away and turn his back on him forever for his failure to save the little girl that slept in front of them; but he was relieved when Ross did neither, and simply wordlessly walked alongside him. “Demelza will come brave again,” the doctor assured Ross, for this he would ensure, or die trying. 

Ross did not speak but continued walking, not entirely sensible of his actions. It was a long walk back to Nampara, but the walk here had been longer: the longest walk a man can take. His gaze lingered over his shoulder, his neck aching with a strain he could not feel, as they approached the church gates. It remained fixed there, where Julia slept, never again to be in his arms, until they were over the hill and she was finally gone. 


End file.
